yearly, gray mother reblooms like a peacock
on the day i became for her.
[unlucky though, hubris, in our petty lives]
felt before seen, a growling, an
underweight firstborn begged from the sky
conspicuous calm, then later tempest of coarse doing
kicking at the dainty teeth of life.
in the days since you rose in the west, blinding orange sun
now she says in tinned telephone voice:
girl, have i not cause for pride? but i am begging
don’t be this political, don’t draw them down with fight
if it’s peace you want from these tidy new bigots.
curses come modern of color and cunt, skill and loving
killjoy genus, species feminist
walking under the eye of new jealous gods’ zealots
affronted by the extra-familial – we have only only the old
dead democracy’s lullabies.
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